


As You Are He

by Tiberius_Tibia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dehumanization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, Therapy, attempted rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1948194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiberius_Tibia/pseuds/Tiberius_Tibia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt: The way Hydra treated the winter soldier, I got the definite impression they regarded him as property, not a person. He's seriously messed up, and used to seriously messed up treatment. The avengers (+ Sam!) find him unconscious and bring him back to the tower, where he's kept in a cell for safety. The first thing he says when he wakes up: "Am I yours now?"  How do they (especially Steve) deal with a brainwashed assassin who thinks they own him? Can Steve get his best friend back? Gen or slash, I don't mind :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The handler introduced a new management technique. Perhaps it had proven more effective, or perhaps they were testing it on him to determine its efficacy. Either way, the Asset was carefully assessing his new handler’s expectations of him- so far it seemed to be a reward-based system that valued initiative and critical reasoning. He could remember a few similar training exercises, although they seemed long ago, when he would be left with certain scenarios to test those reasoning skills. They had come after the very early days of his tempering, the days he recalled entirely as fog; an open cell door, he thought, had been the first. He mentally reviewed the tests in order of increasing complexity: keys left in the ignition of an unattended vehicle, a loaded weapon in his grasp amidst a room of unarmed handlers who Situation A: had recently disciplined him or Situation B: recently praised him, a mission partner who Situation A: deliberately sabotaged a mission or Situation B: bungled through ignorance or incompetence, a highly persuasive target designed to make compelling appeals for mercy. 

The Asset could not remember failing any of these tests back in the days of his previous handlers, although something in the back of his mind tells him that he did. Even the very simplest-the unlocked door, the sleeping guard- failing such a basic test is as unimaginable to him now as it would be for a literate man to picture forgetting his alphabet, yet he felt certain he did fail once. The Asset could recall a something terrifying at the start of the test- not pain, although at the time pain still frightened him. It had been something he had no name for, something he wanted to call the thing with feathers. The memory fades after the knowledge of his failure and absence of the feathery feeling in his chest, The Asset supposed he must have accepted his correction with relief and gratitude for his delivery from the strange, overwhelming thing that swam in his temples and behind his ribs.

Those types of tests had ceased as he had grown increasingly proficient at them, and until the arrival of this new handler the Asset’s overseer, extraction specialists and medical team had all focused on the achievement of a single primary goal per mission. The means had been at his discretion, but the outcome was theirs to determine. His new handler’s first order to him had been confusing but that was alright. Sometimes there was an adjustment period while the new overseer determined how best to use the Asset. 

The Asset asked “You wish me to respond to codename: Bucky for future missions?” 

The handler opened his mouth, closed it again. Finally replied, “You’re Bucky- James Buchanan Barnes. I’m Steve. Steve Rogers,” he paused and made an expression of discomfort, “You sometimes called me Stevie. Or ‘punk.’”

The options were too numerous, the directive too unclear. The handler- Steve Rogers- seemed unaware of how vague he had been. His subordinate with the wings interceded, “Call me Sam, call him Steve. Here we're going to call you Bucky.” 

Sam was the first person here to address the Asset without ending his sentence in an interrogative, except for the red haired female agent who had not spoken to him at all. The Asset nodded. “You are fostering intimacy by allowing the use of your given name. Intimacy will engender loyalty, confidence and result in greater efficiency." It made sense to the Asset. The handler’s expression as he said this didn’t make sense to him at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep getting requests for more of this, and my headcanon for how this goes comes in dribs and drabs. But here’s a little more that I hope to keep adding to.

There was no new assignment, no new training. They explained to him that he’d been decommissioned. He was obsolete. The Asset was gobsmacked. He recalled Pierce telling him that they needed him to shape the world only once more, but at the time it had been nothing but an abstract. He was always superfluous once his missions were complete, but that was alright because there would always be another. Maybe in a week, maybe in a decade— but there would always be one, and in the meantime he could rest and think of nothing.

His CO, Steve, sat opposite him and placed a heavy palm on the Asset’s shoulder when he told him.  
“It’s over Buck,” he’d said, “You’re home now, we’re going to take care of each other again.”

The Asset catalogued his expression as he said this. There was no displeasure in his voice, and his eyes were earnest and fevered. Whatever had prompted the decommissioning was not something the Soldier was in disgrace for, nothing that warranted punishment. When the CO seemed to be waiting for a response, he nodded. 

“Do you remember me Bucky?” 

It was a loaded question. His memory was a poorly frozen pond whose surface could crack at any wrong step. There were rules about what he could and could not remember. Surface details only, and only as required for efficient operation: he could remember a team mate’s birthday but not what flavor of cake he preferred, he could know how a target took her coffee, but only to make sure the drugs administered were tasteless.

He knew Pierce, and he knew the previous CO was often an agent called Rumlow. Some deep, lizard part of his brain knew other names too: Lukin, and Karpov and Zola, and the faces and voices that accompanied those names. In between them and Pierce was a void. Before today the Asset had always secretly believed that Pierce too would one day fade into that void and be replaced by another interchangeable mouth issuing commands. Perhaps that day had come. 

“Do you remember?” Steve asked again.

He did not. The answer would disappoint his CO, but he was bound to complete honesty with his handlers at all times. 

“No s- Steve.” He turned the ‘sir’ into his handler’s name, as requested. The answer was unwelcome already, he didn’t need to add noncompliance to it as well.

Steve bit his lip. “That’s okay,” his voice wobbled, “It’s going to take time. You’ll get used to things again.”

This man was an unknown quantity, but his face was patient and he touched the Soldier in a soft, familiar way that implied favor. He felt bold enough to ask the question that was metastasizing in his mind since the news _decommissioned_ had been broken. “What am I to do now?”

* * *

“I’m just saying, all that energy and skill,” Agent Wilson’s voice came in hushed tones, still audible to the Asset’s enhanced hearing even over the noise of the shower, “You can’t just let it settle. He’ll fester until he explodes, like one of those dead whales on youtube.”

The handler responded angrily, “I’m not letting SHIELD use him, Sam.”

They’d “suggested” that the Asset shower and change, promising to discuss his mission-less future with him after. He’d obeyed the indirect order, but remained on high alert for their discussion of him behind his back. 

“And you shouldn’t, that’s a terrible idea,” Sam continued, “But Steve— have you ever seen what happens to a border collie with nothing to do all day? They’re too smart, and too driven. If you don’t give them a job they go batshit. I’ve seen one strip all the wallpaper off a room in less than eight hours.” 

  “Bucky is not. A fucking. Dog.” The words were clipped, angrier than he’d heard from this man so far, even in combat. “Everyone needs to stop making that comparison. He’s not rabid, he’s not a pitbull I saved from a dog-fighting ring. He’s my best friend. Hydra treated him like a machine for eighty years, I’m not going to let you all start treating him like an animal just because it’s easier than treating him like a person.”

In his head, the Soldier imagined their body language; his CO posturing dominance, barely veiled aggression, Agent Wilson maintaining eye contact just long enough to maintain his own status without overtly challenging a higher-ranking officer. He wasn’t a slinker, from the Asset’s experience of him, he didn’t turn tail even if he was in over his head. Wilson was not one of those who crumbled under official scrutiny and kowtowed at the slightest hint that they might have displeased. But he lacked the showy aggression that many others in his profession wore like a badge of honor. He could be a valuable teammate. 

“It’s going to be harder than you can possibly imagine now, and I’m not saying it won’t be worthwhile,” he told the CO matter-of-factly, “But try to hear what he’s actually saying, not what Bucky Barnes would have said, not what you want so badly to hear. And for god’s sake, find something for him to do, Steve. I don’t care if it’s underwater basket-weaving, just keep him occupied. And if you need help, I’m always here.”

The Asset felt the man’s departure in the silence that followed. He finished his ablutions and dressed in the clothes left for him, then stepped out to meet with his handler alone for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, this has been sitting on my hard drive for months, so I figured I’d finally post it. My other stuff has been neglected because of the holidays and being super busy, but I hope to get back to posting regularly soon.


	3. Chapter 3

The handler stared at him like a kid staring at a birthday candle, unsure what to ask for out of all the things he wanted. He took a deep, shuddery breath while the Asset waited patiently for him to speak.

“They told me you went to the Smithsonian.”

He answered with a nod.

“Did you- did it…?” the CO trailed off and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair, “So, you know you’re Bucky Barnes.”

“I’m Bucky Barnes,” he repeated, “For as long as you require me to be Bucky Barnes.”

“That’s not…,” the man averted his eyes from the Asset’s and squeezed them tightly shut, “If someone, say Abraham Lincoln— or Lenin, say Lenin got lost when he was alive. And he somehow ended up in another country and didn’t know who he was. Even if the people who found him gave him another name, another life, he’d still be Lenin. The new name wouldn’t make the old person cease to exist. Get it?” 

“….Yes,” he answered slowly, “I understand. But a name isn’t a hat or a coat, you can’t just pick it up again and say ‘this is mine’ and start wearing it again. I don’t—” the Asset hesitated. Nothing had angered the handler so far, but this might. “I don’t feel like him.” 

“Okay, let’s try this again.” When he opened his eyes, he fixed his impossibly blue gaze on the Asset’s face. The handler took a step towards him, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Seven Grant Rogers. Call me Steve.” 

The Asset placed his own flesh and blood hand into the Captain’s and shook it. When their hands touched the Captain’s mouth quirked slightly. 

“Hydra Asset 0014A, codename: Winter Soldier,” he answered.

A shadow came over the handler’s face. “Hydra’s done. They’re all gone.”

Yes, he’d forgotten. “Apologies. SHIELD Asset, serial number unknown.” That answer didn’t seem any better.

Steve patted the back of Bucky’s hand once before releasing it. “So,” he smiled, “What’d ya reckon a pair of retirees like us should do with ourselves?”

Obsolescence, _retirement_ , was not something the Soldier understood. He considered the question. The handler expected his contribution, perhaps even leadership. The Asset was a good team leader, objective and single-minded. Their mission was to find a mission. “If one wants to crush and destroy a man entirely, to mete out to him the most terrible punishment, all one has to do is to make him do work that is completely and utterly devoid of usefulness and meaning.”

“Tolstoy?” he asked. 

None of his previous handlers had looked at him the way Steve Rogers looked at him. It was almost unsettling. “Dostoyevsky.”

Steve brushed his hair to the side again. “Right. I’m gonna get changed. You, ah—” he glanced around the apartment, settling on the small kitchen, “You can make a grocery list. Check if we have eggs and stuff, write down anything we need.” He left the room so quickly it was almost a retreat.

Steve leaned heavily against the door, sliding his spine down until he sat curled up on the floor. _Take it easy_ he chanted in his head. _Of course he needs to learn to be a person first, before he can be your person. It shouldn’t be that surprising._ He still had an almost irresistible urge to seize Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled, or grab him and spin him around with joy, or sink to his knees and just lay his head in Bucky’s lap for hours. None of those things would go over well with this Bucky. They probably wouldn’t have gone over well with the old Bucky either. He changed into his civvies and rejoined Bucky. 

On a sheet of lined paper, Bucky had drawn a precise chart: produce, meat, dairy, a section for non-perishables divided into bread, canned goods, boxed items, seasonings, and household items. There were rows of numbers next to each item, some of them were starred. He handed the sheet to Steve.

“I’ve taken an inventory and noted the items you don’t have in stock,” he pointed with a metal finger, “These are estimates of how many of each you would need to supply us for a week.”

“Thanks.” Steve folded the page and put it in his pocket. The handwriting was different, neat and even, nothing like Bucky’s careless chicken-scratch.

“You’re not deployed by SHIELD?” 

Steve shook his head no.

“But they gave you supervision of me?”

“It wasn’t up to them,” Steve sighed. “They could have made a stink about it, gotten the Attorney General involved maybe. But they knew it would be more trouble than it’d be worth in the end. This way, I have something to be grateful to them for.”

“You don’t trust your people.” Bucky’s tone wasn’t judging, merely observational.

“I don’t trust them with you.” His tone was as cold as it had been when he’d admonished Agent Wilson.

The Soldier continued, “Your mission- it’s self-imposed, but it’s still a mission- is to make me feel like Bucky Barnes.”

Steve’s face went through a weird half-smile, half-grimace. “Kind of. Yes. I want you to be yourself again, to be… better.”

“Are those the same thing?”

“I don’t know.” He laid a hand on Bucky’s forearm, “If they’re not, if remembering makes things worse… I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you more than you’ve already been hurt.”

The man was too open, too emotionally invested to make a good handler. But he had been the first, according to the museum exhibit, Steve Rogers led him before any of the others and they’d made a formidable team.

“I don’t feel hurt,” he confessed.

“But you will. You were so angry on the bridge. The file said they wiped you after that, so whatever you’d started remembering went away.”

“I was erratic then, inefficient and defective. If remembering is only going to make me useless and hurt than why not just keep wiping me? That’s how it’s always been before.”

Steve looked at him for a long time before he spoke. His voice was thick and soupy, “The machines are all gone. Destroyed. And the schematics to build them too. No one’s ever going to do that to you again.”

Now it was the Asset’s turn to avert his eyes. “How will I know if I’m feeling like Bucky?” he asked the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know that either. Sorry. Maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. I’m not crazy about this one, honestly. There’s so many Bucky-rehab fics out there, and I love a lot of them, but some just go over the same story beats and I’m not sure I have anything different to add... I dunno, we’ll see if this goes anywhere.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve took him to Brooklyn. He tried, but somehow couldn’t stop himself from referring to it as taking the Asset ‘home’. It made no difference to the Asset, but it was item one on their mission protocol. The night that Steve had confessed that he wasn’t sure what to do next, the Soldier had stayed up until dawn formulating a plan of action. It might have been overstepping his bounds as a subordinate but clearly some initiative was required, even appreciated.

At 0447 hours the handler had a nightmare. The Asset laid his pencil down and sat, just listening, for eight minutes. One had to get used to sleeping through anything— freezing cold, the rough jostling of a truck over dirt roads, the sounds of one’s companions laughing or talking or screaming. He could have slept through the sounds of Steve’s distress, he could even have fallen asleep to it if sleep was what he required to function. But he was awake, and he had no need of sleep for the moment. He rose and knocked on Steve’s door.  


The handler opened the door in his boxers, his bare chest still rising and falling too rapidly with panic-breathing. The Asset raised his head- somehow he found himself automatically staring down, his eyes at the Captain’s sternum- and met the man’s gaze. Steve’s eyes were still cloudy with interrupted sleep. He raised one hand, and the Asset registered that Steve was going to touch him. He held still and did not flinch. It was a friendly touch; a gentle cupping of his jaw for a moment, the thumb sliding along his cheekbone.

“Thank you for waking me,” the handler said. The Asset nodded. His stubbled cheek rubbed against the man’s palm when he did so. Steve dropped his hand. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I was awake.” They stood there in awkward silence for a moment. The Soldier’s eyes were already accustomed to the dim light and he saw over Steve’s shoulder that the bed was in a terrible state. He stepped past him into the room. “You’ll never pass muster like this,” he said, tucking in the fitted sheet where Steve had torn it almost entirely off the mattress. Finished, the blankets smooth and neat again, he gestured for Steve to go back to bed.

“You’re still dressed,” Steve commented.

The Asset frowned. “I’m still on fugitive time. Move at night, sleep during the day. I’ll adjust in the next twenty-four hours… Unless you want me to retire for the night?”

Steve shook his head. “You can stay up if you want to. I’m gonna- I’ll leave the door open a bit. Just in case.”

“You anticipate the dreams coming back. Should I keep watch in here with you?”

“Nah,” Steve said, “Better not.” He smiled and turned the light off. The Asset left the door slightly ajar. He accomplished nothing the rest of the night, but sat in the dark replaying the strange unease he’d felt listening to the handler’s cries.

In the morning, after their run, Bucky presented Steve with the protocol he’d outlined for Steve’s mission. It read:

> Phase 1:  
>  A) Familiar locations  
>  -Brooklyn, NY  
>  -Paris  
>  -London  
>  -Baden-Württemberg, Germany  
>  B) Familiar people  
>  -Steve Rogers  
>  -Peggy Carter  
>  -Gabe Jones  
>  -Jacques Dernier  
>  -Timothy Dugan  
>  C) Familiar activities/skills- TBD
> 
> Phase 2:  
>  A) Psychotherapy  
>  -specialists in hypnosis/past life regression  
>  -couples counseling  
> 

It was scant, but at least he had something to show for himself. Steve blinked at the list.

“I can’t do this before coffee,” he said, handing it back to Bucky. The tone in his voice wasn’t angry or distressed, it was… dismayed. Steve poured them each a mug and sat down, gesturing for Bucky to sit opposite.  
“This is— you don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want to,” he said simply.

“Do you have other orders for me?”

Steve’s face made funny twitches as he regarded Bucky’s list. “No,” he admitted.

“And your goal is to bring Bucky Barnes back, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but— ”

“You have a mission, I don’t. You’re my de facto CO, it’s my responsibility to help you in whatever capacity you ask.” He tapped the items one by one. “I’ve located all the living members of the Howling Commandos as well as Agent Carter and listed them by geographical proximity. I can revise that with regards to health and life expectancy if you think best, I gather that Mr. Dugan is in poor health so perhaps we should consult him sooner. I’ve left room for your input in locations and activities. I’m couldn’t think of any and there were none mentioned in the primary sources.”

Steve rubbed his temples. “And this? Phase two, you _want_ to see a therapist? I mean, that’s great, I just… hadn’t expected it.”

“It’s recommended by experts in treating both memory loss and assimilating to civilian life after active duty.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s fine, I can get Sam to help with that. But…” Steve trailed off, waving his hand at the end of the list.

“I was able to do only cursory research last night on past-life regression,” Bucky admitted, “It is somewhat controversial, but we can try to find someone credible in the field. I thought we should explore every option.”

“And the couples’ counseling? Buck, you know what that is, right?”

“Yes. Some of the historical analysis speculates that we were romantically involved, but I need you to confirm that to determine if couples’ counseling would be necessary.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the sound of Steve nervously bouncing his foot against the table leg. “We were together,” he whispered, “We were each other’s whole world, ever since we were kids.”

“And that’s the primary objective of your mission.”

“Bucky, no— I don’t care if you never love me again!” Bucky raised an eyebrow. Steve’s voice was strained and desperate, “I mean, I do care. I care so much. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to put that first, over helping you get better.”

“Which only means that you would benefit from dual counseling as much as I would,” Bucky said, reasonably, “You’re bound to experience some frustration and emotional pain, especially if we fail. You shouldn’t have to handle that all on your own."

Steve huffed at him. “I guess it can’t hurt anything. But, Bucky if we do this you have to keep it a secret until I say otherwise.”

“Because you still expect people to react to that information the way they would have in 1942?”

“Because,” Steve said, staring seriously at Bucky, “As much as everyone tells me the world is a better place now, I’m not blind. And I don’t want any of that crap thrown at you, not yet. Captain America coming out would help a lot of people, I know that.” He flushed and looked down at the table. “You think I’m too noble, everybody does. But this is me being selfish, because I know I could help a lot of people by being honest but I won’t put them ahead of you. You’re my mission now,” he gave a grim smile, “Just like you were in Austria.”

Bucky hesitated. “Maybe I’d better not be,” he said, “I’m not sure I’m worth it now. It might be better for everyone if you let me go back to SHIELD and left well enough alone.”

“Not a chance,” said Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the lovely comments. I’ll keep tinkering with this story and try to keep it fresh and different.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky was not very good company. When he wasn’t unintentionally breaking Steve’s heart with little throwaway remarks, he could be very boring. Steve had managed to postpone most of the memory-lane crap that Bucky had proposed, arguing that just being back in Brooklyn was enough and they should try to let it happen organically. He included Bucky in his crash course in popular culture of the decades they’d missed, but Bucky had no opinions on art. In the old days, even if his own skill would never go past what one teacher had kindly referred to as 'showy draftsmanship’ Bucky had always had an amazing eye. He could spot beauty and originality or derivativeness and pretension in anything. Steve wasn’t always entirely won over to Bucky’s side, but it did make him think.

He’d never been a great reader, preferring dime-press mystery novels at most. Steve had gotten the complete Agatha Christie, not mentioning that she’d been Bucky’s favorite. He’d read everything she’d written up to _Murder is Easy_. Bucky read the books without comment. When Steve had asked him how he liked the first one, Bucky listed off the practical and impractical methods for killing someone mentioned in the book. 

”Why do I have to read the whole book?” he asked Steve in all seriousness, “Why not read up to the murder, then skip to the end?” 

Steve had a fruitless debate with him about the purpose of escapism and suspense before finally telling Bucky that he should try to figure out who the culprit was before the end, and he could skip ahead to see if he was right.

Music was easier, although Bucky didn’t seem to understand the point of playing a song more than once. Movie nights were the worst. Clint, Natasha, Tony and Bruce invited Bucky to their weekly movie nights. Steve liked their enthusiasm for educating him on what each considered “essential viewing” and even if he didn’t like the movie he still had a good time. Bucky made it unbearably awkward. It was inadvertent, but listening to Bucky explain in graphic detail that, no he had no objections to watching a movie with violence or torture. He knew enough about the real thing for staged versions to bother him. So they watched Braveheart, and Bucky was fine. Better than Steve, in fact. Better than Tony who said nothing but made a few snack runs at strategic times.

One week, when snow covered the city and no one wanted to venture outside, Tony threw a James Bond marathon. Pepper met them all in the elevator and quietly described it as his attempt at immersion therapy. 

“It was their thing, Howard and Tony’s,” she explained, “They saw every new Bond movie together. They both loved Q. Howard bought reels of the first five, the ones that came out before Tony was born. He still has them somewhere.” She looked around the group, making sure they were all listening. “He can’t watch even the cheesy ones now, nothing where the hero gets captured and beaten up. It’s not… very bad. But it’s ruined it for him. And he hates that about himself.”

Tony could not be talked out of the idea though, and all in all, it went rather well. Tony rubbed Pepper’s shoulders through the first movie to give himself something to do with his hands and excused himself to make a batch of daquiris during Casino Royale, but that was it. Steve enjoyed most of the films- one Pierce Brosnan, four Sean Connery, two Daniel Craig and one Roger Moore- and watching them chronologically felt good, like he got to see at least one tiny part of the world change for himself. And they were exactly the sort of thing Bucky loved. Would have loved, past tense.

He didn’t love anything now. He sat politely through all their movie nights, but he never had any reaction to them. He had no opinion in the Best Bond Actor debate that sprang up. The looks Bucky got for his blank response to the opening of Up made Steve worry that his friends thought _that_ was more cause to fear Bucky than his super-assassin skills. Even their old favorites that Steve watched with Bucky when they were alone invoked no reaction. Steve made him sit through Robin Hood, King Kong and Animal Crackers. He streamed the Shirley Temple movies that Bucky’s sisters had loved, and that he and Bucky had rolled their eyes and protested at being forced to take them to. He squeezed Bucky’s hand (the first overtly affectionate touch he’d initiated) when they watched Lon Chaney’s mask come off in Phantom of the Opera, just like he had when they were seven years old and scaring themselves into shrieks of laughter by watching it over and over and over.

The worst part was that Steve felt like he was boring Bucky. It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do, and he never objected. But he sat beside Steve, alone or with the rest of the Avengers and watched the way the old people in Peggy’s nursing home watched cooking shows. Eventually even Clint, who’d been the most understanding, stopped asking Bucky if he had a preference or what he thought of a certain film.

* * *

“It’s just not his thing,” Clint told Steve over coffee one morning while Bucky was with his new therapist. “Maybe it used to be, and maybe it will be again someday, but for now don’t let that be the be-all end-all of things.”

“I’m trying not to,” Steve said, “I’m never not trying to compare him, to look for similarities or even little cracks in that— exterior.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I haven’t tried this hard to ignore something that hurt since I was a shrimp.”

Clint looked at him sympathetically and said nothing. 

“I just don’t know what to do with him,” Steve confessed, “He’ll do anything I ask, we go to games and take walks and make dinner. But it’s all… it’s all recon to him.”

“I don't have any life hacks to help get over being brainwashed and forced to do terrible things,” Clint smiled a self-deprecating little smile, “Time and patience. And therapy. And something to do, something that feels good.” He rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I, uh… I bought a farm.”

Steve blinked at him. “A farm-farm? You mean as in, Old-MacDonald had a farm? With cows and chickens and…,” he paused casting around for another farm animal, “Sheep?”

“Ei-ei-oh,” said Clint. “I have an alpaca,” he added proudly.

“I don’t know what that is,” said Steve.

Clint rolled his eyes. “A llama,” he scoffed, "City boy.”

“That’s…. great, Clint. That’s really neat.”

“Don’t say anything to the others yet?” Clint asked, “Natasha knows, but I’m not done bracing myself for all the new nicknames I’m going to get from Stark.”

“You got it.”  


* * *

When Steve arrived back at their apartment Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table writing another list. He’s a big fan of lists these days, unlike the old fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Bucky who could start out dragging Steve on a double date to the corner dancehall and end up with the two of them, alone, lying on the sand in New Jersey just so they could admire the city from a different angle. 

Bucky had insisted that Steve draw the skyline from the western side, where he could really see all of it. Steve, laughing despite already sliding from drunk to hungover, had told him that he didn’t bring his sketchbook when he went out dancing, and Bucky had sprung into action, piling up sand as fast as he could to make a sandcastle-skyline. It hadn’t worked, not with both of them slipping in the wet sand, knocking over bits of their partially constructed sand city. Steve had had the bright idea of digging out subway tunnels, and when that made the whole thing collapse they’d crawled under the boardwalk and lain side by side. There was no one on their stretch of beach, not for miles, and he’d kissed Bucky, tasting salt and feeling the sand on Bucky’s face leave a thousand pinpricks on his lips.

He felt a flash of anger looking at the man currently sitting at his table, the man who didn’t love Steve him the way he’d been loved that night. He pushed it away quickly. Bucky had moved on from list-writing to organizing Steve’s folder of coupons. So far, couponing had been Steve’s biggest success at giving him Something To Do. He understood the purpose of conserving financial resources (whether that had anything to do with the superlative household management Mrs. Barnes had taught all her children and which was why Bucky was the one who had paid their bills Steve doesn’t know). In his pre-Winter Soldier days, Steve would buy a steak when he craved a steak, and stock only milk, beer, peanuts and ketchup. Bucky seemed to almost enjoy planning meals for the week, balancing protein and carbohydrates and making sure they each consume enough calories. 

Bucky looked up from his binder. “Steve, do you have any plans before our visit to Stark Tower?” 

_Do you have any plans_

It was Bucky-speak for _What are my orders, sir?_

“No.” Steve had learned by now that ‘not really’ and ‘I don’t think so’ don’t go over so well. “How was therapy?” 

“Dr. Braun agreed to try hypnosis. He doesn’t subscribe to it personally but he thinks in my case it’s worth a try. He asked me to read up on Brian Weiss to learn more about it.” 

It was the most enthusiastic Steve had seen him since Coulson had delivered him into Steve’s custody. He couldn’t decide if what he felt now, listening to Bucky, was pain or not. It was a tickling feeling in his throat and lungs, one he used to associate with an impending cold or worse. Bucky gazed at him with those blue eyes. “Have you found anyone you’d like to see? Or that we should see together?” 

That had been Steve’s closest thing to an order. He would be the one to find a couples therapist. So far, he’d done no searching at all. “Not yet.” Lying to this Bucky— not this Bucky, his Bucky, the only Bucky— lying to Bucky about that was surprisingly easy. Of course, the Asset knew when he was being lied to, or Bucky subconsciously knew Steve’s body cues too well, or Steve was a shit liar. Or all three. 

Bucky averted his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me. If you want to veto one of my proposals that’s your prerogative.” 

“I’m not, Christ- Bucky, I’m not vetoing. You should see someone if it helps.” He pressed his palms to his face and sighed deeply. “I’m just not in a hurry to see a bunch of doctors, okay?” 

Bucky studied Steve’s face. “Is it because of your ma?” Steve stared at him. 

Bucky went on. “Is it because they told her your asthma was her fault? Because she was a bad mother? You know that’s all wrong. The shrinks stopped thinking that ages ago.” 

“She never did though!” he couldn’t keep his voice steady, “At the end, when they wouldn’t even let me see her because I might catch it. She wrote me a letter, said she was sorry for whatever it she’d done that made me so sick. She blamed herself- _they_ told her to blame herself. She didn’t do a damn thing wrong!” 

One minute he was sitting, with his elbows on the table. The next the table was lying on its side, a long crack in the hardwood floor. And Bucky was behind him, one hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve reached up and grasped the cool metal fingers. 

“How did you know that?” he asked, his voice still harsh, “I showed you the letter after the funeral. I was so mad I couldn’t sit still. It was the only time you took me out to look for a fight on purpose. Do you remember?” 

“I googled reasons not to visit psychiatrists. You were reluctant, and I needed to know why.” 

Steve dropped his chin. “I’m sorry if I misled you.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Bucky stepped closer, not touching except where Steve held his hand, and they stood, sharing each other’s space until Steve’s breathing slowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: during the 1930s–1950s, asthma was known as one of the "holy seven" psychosomatic illnesses. Its cause was considered to be psychological, with treatment often based on psychoanalysis and other talking cures. Psychoanalysts at the time interpreted the asthmatic wheeze as the suppressed cry of the child for its mother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky expresses some period-typical 40s era opinions on sex, specifically by omitting asexuality, because as a sexual person living Pre-Kinsey it’s unlikely he would have been aware of asexuality.

It was 0300 hours. Bucky sat at the living room window, concealed but still able to watch the near empty Brooklyn streets below. 

Steve had received a phone call that evening from Agent Coulson, stating that under no circumstances were they to attempt any form hypnotherapy or hypnosis on the Winter Soldier. Failure to comply would result in the immediate apprehension of the Asset by SHIELD and his subsequent trial. At the start of the call, Steve put him on speaker phone so Bucky could hear everything that was said. Coulson went on about risk assessment and the possibility of latent programming.

Steve went red with rage, his jaw working and his face flushing a true Irish flush from his collar bone to the roots of his hair. Through clenched teeth he began to tell Coulson what Captain America would do if they tried to interfere with Bucky’s treatment. It was something Bucky had seen before. Plenty of Hydra team leaders got into pissing contests with the powers that be over the exact best way to execute a mission, plenty of his medical maintenance staff had shouting matches with the same powers that be over how to keep him at optimal performance. The Soldier never argued with superiors. They set the parameters and it was his job to operate successfully within them. Arguing too vehemently with people of higher rank resulted in negative results 77% of the time. Demotion, removal from a project, termination— he could not let those things happen to Steve.

“Permission to speak ” he began. Steve looked up at him, his face still an angry grimace.

”Of course, Buck." 

“Mr. Barnes, you have something to add?” On the surface Coulson sounded nonplussed, but there was a brittle edge to his voice.

“According to the American Psychological Association there is evidence that hypnosis combined with psychotherapy can alleviate depression, anxiety, phobias, stress, habit disorders, gastro-intestinal disorders, skin conditions, post-surgical recovery, nausea and vomiting and positively influence sensation, perception, learning and memory.” He paused for breath.

“Additionally there are no actual records of hypnosis being used previously in my training. So the likelihood of an… incident, a malfunctioning is low. Low to negligible. Furthermore, Captain Rogers has agreed to be present during any sessions as a precaution.” He looked down. At some point during his speech Steve had taken the metal hand in his. There was silence on the end of the line.

“I can send you the articles if you’d like to have your SHIELD psychiatrists review them,” Bucky offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” Coulson said, and now there was a definite twinge of _something_ in his voice. “The order stands. No hypnosis. Now, I need to speak to Steve privately.”

Steve looked about to argue again but Bucky mouthed _don’t antagonize him_. He looked him in the eye until the other man nodded his agreement, then retreated to his bedroom. He felt physically strange- jittery, like ants were crawling over his skin. His head throbbed and there was a twitching urge to punch through something. Perhaps it was because he’d never been involved in the planning part of a mission before, and now he was feeling some of the frustration his handlers had felt when their carefully laid plans were interfered with. Perhaps it was because those people were thwarting Steve, and Steve was his CO. Steve was the CO above all COs, and somehow despite SHIELD imposing their will on Steve, Steve was not their subordinate. Which meant that Bucky also was not their subordinate, so he had done the right thing in arguing.

Now his task would be harder. _They_ were making it harder. Dr. Braun had told him repeatedly not to expect the memories of his early life to return like updating an operating system, but Bucky couldn’t help hoping that at least some of it would be that easy. He shook himself. It didn’t matter, they had other avenues to explore. And he just had to make contingency plans. Really he should have been making them all along. It was sloppy on his part, lazy. He’d been letting Steve do too much of the work. So Bucky watched the few revelers stagger home in the small hours and he worked on another list. Outside the sky changed color as he brainstormed. 

Fact 1:Bucky Barnes was a normal person. Mission: Be normal.

> Phase 1: Normal Behaviors and Habits  
>  A) Gainful employment  
>  -career counseling/ job hunt  
>  -additional schooling (in the event of failure to find employment)  
>  B) Friends/Socialization  
>  -excludes Steve  
>  -excludes pre-existing friends of Steve  
>  C) Sex  
>  ~~-participation from Steve~~  
>  -masturbation  
>  -participation from Steve  
> 

He changed the order on the last section. Steve had not made any further steps towards finding a counselor they would see together, nor had he initiated any traditionally affectionate or romantic behaviors. Maybe he'd eliminated that as one of their goals. But he said he wanted Bucky to get better, which implied normalcy, which implied sex. Which meant he might expect Bucky to find another sexual partner. His head swam a little, he was losing focus. Too abstract an objective, he decided, he wouldn’t think about it now. He kept going. Fact 2: Bucky Barnes was a good person. Mission: Be good. 

> Phase 2: Good behaviors and habits  
>  A) Charity/Volunteer work ****  
> -ask Steve for suggested volunteer opportunities  
>  B) Attend church?  
> 

He frowned at that one, trying to understand what had prompted him to write it. James Barnes was Roman Catholic, but the primary sources didn’t indicate if he was devout, lapsed or somewhere in between. He certainly hadn’t followed any of the commandments about sex. Steve would have to supply the missing data with that one.

Fact 3: Bucky Barnes was Steve Rogers’ best friend. Mission: Be Steve’s best friend.

> Phase 3: Friendly Behaviors and Habits

That one stumped him. He stared at the page for twelve minutes before deciding that research into being someone’s best friend could wait until later. He left the protocol blank and moved on to the last point. 

Fact 4: Bucky Barnes protected Steve Rogers. Although he could think of nothing specific to write for that one either, it didn’t trouble him. There was no official procedure in the world that could tell him how to protect Steve Rogers. Since his reassignment to Steve’s care, there had been no overt call for it. But it was there. It was there with his training and instinct and muscle memory. It was the prime directive that had overridden all others. Maybe everything else that Bucky Barnes had been to Steve had been eroded down to smoothness, but not this. Looking at the words written in the neat, orderly handwriting that did not belong to the Brooklyn boy he felt something click into place in his head. A sense of calm came over him, like the calm when he listened to his heartbeat as he prepared to pull the trigger, making sure he did so at the exact moment between beats. _That_ was his mission. It was the mission Steve had given him all those years ago when he stopped snarling at his rescuer and accepted a hand up off the pavement. It was the mission Steve had given him again, without knowing, without words, when he took Bucky into his home. He had nothing to add to the last point, but he underlined it once and set the page down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hypnotherapy has been documented as effective in medical journals, however further research is needed to establish the extent of its potential benefits as well as any negative effects.
> 
> All the conditions Bucky cites have had documented cases of alleviation through hypnotherapy but to my knowledge there are no large-scale studies on the benefits of hypnotherapy to any one condition.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky’s first couples counseling session

Steve was being rude. His body language was closed-off, his words clipped and unnecessarily harsh. It made Bucky want to mimic his aggressive posturing, support his CO’s apparent distaste for their new counselor, but that would be against his orders. Dr. Braun had recommended they try couples’ counseling, and Bucky had asked Pepper how to find a suitable candidate. It had taken weeks for Steve to stop dragging his feet and agree to an appointment, and could have taken longer as Bucky oscillated between total compliance when his handler exhibited a strong desire not to meet with the therapist and gentle prodding for Steve to take the next step towards completing the mission.

He’d kept track of his own responses and out of every ten times that Steve made an excuse for not going, or simply said he wasn’t ready, Bucky had offered no objection seven times. Constructive opposition was a desirable trait, but the times he did argue left him restless and agitated. Finally wracked with guilt for putting him in that position Steve agreed to an appointment.

Marilyn Levy was a middle-aged woman with smooth brown hair shot with white, smooth olive-skin, and a smooth alto voice. Bucky sat before her dutifully, hands folded on his knees, studying the diplomas on her wall. As much as he wanted to imitate Steve’s obvious displeasure, something about their opposing attitudes—his keen and respectful, Steve’s bristling and contrary—felt natural. 

“We’re not together, me and Buck,” Steve began, his words truncated and blunt. “And he’s got his own doctor that he sees twice a week.”

The doctor regarded him levelly. “But the two of you do live together, and are committed to supporting and caring for each other?”

“Yes,” put in Bucky promptly. Support and care, he was sure that applied to them.

“My job is to help people—married couples, romantic or platonic partners, however you want to define your bond with each other— help them make those bonds the strongest and most fulfilling they can be.”

“I saw on your website that you, ah, help people with… bedroom troubles?” Steve’s expression was a mixture of resentment and morbid curiosity. The doctor laughed, not unkindly.

“I’m a clinical psychiatrist specializing in human sexuality and a certified sex therapist with the American Association of Sexuality Educators, Therapists and Counselors. If part of my patients’ unhappiness comes from sexual issues, I address that with them the same way I’d address any other area of the relationship that’s causing stress.”

“I’m going to kill Tony,” Steve muttered. 

Bucky stopped breathing—he’d chosen wrong. He’d sought advice from his own therapist and Ms. Potts, the most competent person he’d met since his reassignment and _still_ Steve was displeased with his choice. He held himself perfectly rigid, the chastisement would probably be mild, might not even be physically painful at all, but he braced himself for it. 

“Captain Rogers, I assure I have many patients whose sex lives seldom, if ever, come up in our sessions. Why don’t we start with each of you explaining your goals for our time here?” she asked.

Steve, still half-certain he was being snowed, glared at the wall. Bucky waited but it became clear that Steve was not going to speak first. He decided that Dr. Levy’s question was permission enough to permit him to begin.

“To restore our personal relationship to the level of intimacy and familiarity as that between Steve and James Barnes before 1944.”

The doctor nodded and made some notes on a small pad. “Can you tell me more about your relationship then?” 

Bucky nearly quoted the blurbs from the Smithsonian exhibit, but checked himself and mentally reworded his thoughts. “It was one of great trust and affection. We made an excellent team.”

“Trust, affection, teamwork— those are all good goals. Thank you, James,” she turned to Steve. “Do you agree with that description?” 

Steve uncrossed and recrossed his legs and jiggled a foot. “Bucky’s my best friend,” he told the back of the computer monitor.

The doctor’s voice remained pleasant, “And tell me one goal you have for these sessions.”  “To….help Bucky get better,” Steve hemmed. More note jotting.

“Can you explain more about what you mean by ‘get better’?” 

Bucky could have saved them all time and printed them each a copy of his mission itinerary with its detailed points for the recovery of Bucky Barnes. It seemed highly counterproductive to drive every member of the team towards their specific tasks like a sheepdog herding recalcitrant sheep, but his own therapist called it a ‘process’. Process, he said, was very important.

Steve huffed, “I want him to have the freedom to do what he wants. I want to help him acclimate to the 21st century and yes— I want him to remember before. Partly because I’m selfish but also because those are _his_ memories, that’s _his_ past, _his_ life and no one should be able to take that away.” His voice grew thick and broken as he spoke.

“What else?” Dr. Levy asked gently.

“I want him to get better so that SHIELD can’t use that as an excuse to take him away. Take him back and make him work for them or lock him up.” He looked at Bucky. “It took me so damn long to find you. I can’t let you down again.” There was silence as the moment settled between them like a falling leaf. The mission parameters blurred briefly until all Bucky could recall was _make him smile, just make him smile_ , then flattened out again into the clear succession of events that would rebuild James Buchanan Barnes.

“You both clearly care a great deal about each other,” said Dr. Levy, “Now, I want each of you to give me a goal for yourselves for the next week. Something outside of each other for you each to work towards. James?” she looked to Bucky to answer first.

He breathed slowly for a few beats, calming himself. “I need a job, something productive”

“Excellent. So for next week, try to find a list of potential jobs that appeal to you.”

Bucky nodded, glad his answers today had all been satisfactory. He was good at this.

“Steve?” she asked.

“See what the Avengers have going on, maybe rack up some more brownie points with SHIELD.” The uncertainty in his tone made Bucky twitch.

“Okay, but try to give me something focused more on you. Before Bucky came back, what were your plans, what made you feel good about yourself?”

Steve was silent. Bucky fretted.

The doctor prompted him again. “Let’s go back further. Where did you see yourself after the war? You must have looked forward to a time when it would all be over?”

“I…” Steve hesitated, “Back in Brooklyn, I guess. Sometimes, after the serum I thought about being with Peggy, but—” Bucky and the doctor gave him time to formulate his words. “Back then, thinking about the future always meant thinking about a time when Buck and I couldn’t be together anymore. Or a time I’d be sick again. I only really started planning things… during the war. And then when Bucky fell. It felt like a brick wall went up, and I couldn’t see past it.”

He looked from her to Bucky and gave a bitter little laugh. “They called me the Star-Spangled Man with a plan. But I’ve never really had much of a plan.”

It would have been inappropriate to touch a CO without express permission, unthinkable to acknowledge with even a wordless brush of the hand that a superior was presenting vulnerability. Phase 3 allowed for friendly behaviors, and Bucky decided to let that count as permission. He took Steve’s hand, twining the strong, long fingers with his own metal ones.

“You like to draw.” Bucky’s voice was low. It was another not-memory, another fact he’d read off a museum plaque that gave him insights he hadn’t earned. Those stolen insights could hurt Steve badly he’d learned, but he could think of nothing else to say and he had to say something.

“Well,” said Dr. Levy, “I think that’s a good place to start.”


	8. Chapter 8

According to his reading, the real test of a loving relationship was the little things. Small compliments and kindnesses that did not dissipate over time, the ability to continue to find charm in the most mundane sights. Tooth-brushing was often cited an example, apparently watching a person brush their teeth every day for forty years indicated true devotion. 

Bucky himself did not have teeth, at least, not most of them. Somewhere in the swirling fog of his early conditioning they’d been knocked out or rotted from neglect. He’d had several different dental plates over the years, including one occasion when someone with more enthusiasm than sense decided he should be fitted with sharpened titanium teeth. But when he’d emerged from hand-to-hand combat with his mouth streaming blood that plan had been scratched. 

Now he had two sets of ordinary looking teeth so he could have a clean set to wear at all times— the ones he’d been wearing upon his surrender and the second set in a box of gear SHIELD had scanned and deemed safe for him to have. It made no difference, toothed or not he would follow orders, but the vague memory of a time before Hydra had fitted him reeked of vulnerability like moldy bread. Steve was probably unaware of the state of Bucky’s dentistry; neither he nor SHIELD had mentioned it and Bucky kept his spare plate carefully secreted in his room. 

It was a lie of omission acceptable only because it had never come up organically and would have caused Steve distress, perhaps lasting distress at finding something else fake in Bucky’s smiles. And Bucky was in no great hurry to recline in a chair in a room with bright surgical lights and medicinal smells with one of his most tender places on display and at the mercy of some new wielder of various sharp instruments. Concealment of a physical weakness from a handler was new to him and it hummed beneath his skin, but there was something almost wondrous in the mere knowledge that he could keep a secret from a CO, that he was even capable of it. He had not been for years and years.

And now he had to confess his deception. The mission was to return to the state of intimacy Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes had enjoyed as companions and fellow soldiers. Intimacy required vulnerability, required honesty, required tandem tooth-brushing. Would Steve see it that way or would he see it as a subordinate revealing a long-maintained deception?

Well, if punishment was forthcoming it’d be best to get it over and done with and let nothing delay the mission any further. Bucky set about syncing their schedules, dutifully presenting himself beside Steve in front of the bathroom mirror the next morning. Steve was shaving, his face frosted with shaving cream, brow furrowed in concentration. It was pleasant, the casual sharing of such a routine yet intimate act, and the purpose of the exercise suddenly became clear. But that wasn’t the assignment. Why couldn’t it be watching Steve shave for the next forty years, his eyes following the track of the blade across Steve’s throat?

Bucky waited until Steve finished and rinsed the razor, then swift as he could, eyes averted, he pulled out his top plate. He set spare in its little container of polident beside the sink. There was no reason for uneasiness; at least no reason beyond the impending reprimand for hiding pertinent medical information. But there was an instinctive human aversion to being seen this way blanketing him, making his skin prickle like an electric current. It wasn’t just his failing as a subordinate— he was ugly like this and he did not want Steve to see it.

For his part, Steve blinked, startled at first before making a concerted effort to look nonchalant, as though Bucky removed parts of himself everyday. The whole thing took less than four minutes to complete. It left a note of awkwardness between them, not the hoped-for rapport. Steve passed him his toothbrush like a peace offering, like he was the one in the wrong.

“I’m sorry,” said Bucky to the tile countertop.

“Jesus, Buck. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Handlers are supposed to be informed of all medical concerns, I kept something from you.”

Steve let out a deep breath. He gave Bucky’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, his palm warm against the scar tissue. “It’s your business. You don’t owe me any explanations.” A brief pause and then Steve began, “Do you need to see someone about it? They make permanent ones now that—”

Bucky recoiled. It made sense, tactically. Permanent dentures would be more efficient and he could forego a repeat of this excruciating ritual every morning. Steve wouldn’t order him to, he never intentionally ordered Bucky to do anything, but he didn’t have to. It was the Asset’s duty to maintain optimal physical condition whenever it did not interfere with a mission. Spots began to form in Bucky’s vision, he could already smell the acrid, antiseptic smell that meant _doctors_. The hand on his shoulder gripped him a little tighter and Bucky looked up. Steve was smiling at him.

“You know what? Why bother?”

The words were like a hit of heroin, the blinding glare and smell of latex and lysol vanished. _Steve understood._ He should protest; Steve had said it to spare him, there was no justifiable reason not to except his own crippling aversion. Bucky said nothing.

“It it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Am I right?”

“I’m not afraid,” Bucky lied. 

Steve shrugged. “‘Course not. But why waste an afternoon?” He took their two toothbrushes from the holder and squeezed a line of toothpaste onto each before handing Bucky his. As he took it, their fingers brushed briefly. It reminded him of a scene from a film he’d watched with Steve, an old black-and-white romance, the man placing two cigarettes in his mouth, lighting them together from one flame and handing one to his beloved. Something tingled low in his belly. 

It was not the first time he’d stood this close to Steve, nearly hip-to-hip. But it was the first time he’d done so when they were alone, of his own initiative. Not that it meant anything; they needed to be that close, sharing the same sink. In the mirror, they kept catching each other’s eye and glancing away, not furtive this time but easy and open. Both moved in to spit at the same time, their heads bumping with a thwack. Bucky jerked back.

“Ouch,” said Steve, rubbing his temple, “Forgot how thick your skull is.” His tone was light and teasing.

Bucky murmured an apology which Steve met with a dopey little smile. Something, somewhere in this exchange had made him… _happy_. Before, Bucky would have easily categorized a handler’s pleasure upon learning of the Asset’s failures and misdeeds as anticipation of inflicting pain. Nothing with Steve was the way it had been before. A rush of euphoria at the success of the endeavor swept through Bucky. Still, something nagged at him.

“You don’t mind it? I know it only matters when it effects my performance but you don’t have to see it if it’s… off-putting.”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. Not a damn thing.” Steve opened the medicine cabinet, rearranged the bandages and hair gel to make room and set the box with Bucky’s spare plate carefully inside. “We’re a couple of nonagenarians anyway. I’ll get a walker or some bifocals and we’ll be a matched pair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My other fics aren't cooperating so I wrote an entire chapter of Steve and Bucky brushing their teeth? I don't even know anymore.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr ](http://caligularib.tumblr.com/)


End file.
